Gu Cheng sank into a metal folding chair in the rest area of the “Luochuan-3” space station, and only then did the last taut thread of tension inside him finally unwind. His uniform was soaked with sweat, then chilled by the station’s constant-temperature system until it clung uncomfortably cold against his back. He’d just completed a docking assignment that could only be described as disastrous—a decrepit cargo freighter named “Dawn,” whose thrusters had abruptly failed in the final kilometer. He’d practically dragged it into its berth by sheer willpower and his intuitive feel for engine harmonics. Throughout the ordeal, he could practically see the dismissive stares from the seasoned controllers in Mission Ops, and hear the label “Starflight Academy waste” being welded permanently onto his name.
He hadn’t even caught his breath before his wrist-mounted personal terminal began to vibrate—faint but insistent, like an ominous premonition. A message from the ship owner popped up on the screen. No signature, only a familiar encrypted codename:
“Xiao Gu, don’t just focus on delivering the goods. On your return trip, the cargo hold carries a special shipment bound for Warehouse Zero in Toren, the ground-side metropolis where the Academy is located. The consignee is ‘Li.’ This is a dedicated delivery—you must personally escort it. Don’t let anyone near it before handover. It’s a batch of precision components. Deliver it safely, and you’ll get double your usual fee.”
Gu Cheng frowned deeply as he finished reading. In this age of hyper-automated logistics, “dedicated delivery” protocols were practically extinct—reserved almost exclusively for top-secret government or military transports. It meant one pilot handled the entire journey, with all external data links severed and zero intermediate stops. And the consignee identified only by a single character—“Li”—felt deeply, unnervingly off. He could tell this job ran far deeper than it appeared.
But the ship owner had always been reliable—never once shorted him, a perpetually broke student. And that “double fee”… the number echoed in his mind like a siren’s call. It could cover next semester’s tuition, extra hours in the sim pods, even that premium-grade neural feedback glove he’d been eyeing for half a year. He stood at the most financially precarious crossroads of his life; any extra income could alter his trajectory entirely.
His fingers absently traced the rough edge of his terminal as he weighed the risks against the rewards. Just then, a crisp voice—tinged with faint reproach—cut through his murky thoughts like a pebble tossed into still water.
“Gu Cheng?”
He snapped his head up. A young woman in a Luochuan-3 Mission Control uniform stood before him. Her chestnut hair was neatly coiled at the nape of her neck, held in place by a simple data cable, revealing a smooth, high forehead and an elegant neck. Her uniform was immaculate, her epaulets gleaming with insignia stars—a stark contrast to his oil-streaked flight suit. Her almond-shaped eyes were sharp and bright, now narrowed slightly as she scrutinized him without reservation. Her nameplate read clearly: “Dispatcher – Zhong Wei.”
“Zhong Wei?” Gu Cheng was surprised. She was his classmate at Starflight Academy—though he studied starship piloting while she majored in space traffic command. One flew the heavens; the other directed from orbit (or stations like this one). They’d shared the same high-G adaptation boot camp, and he remembered her always training alone, aloof and reserved. They’d barely spoken. Yet somehow, her presence now eased the tension coiled inside him, like spotting a familiar beacon in a chaotic starfield.
“I just monitored your entire thruster-failure handling from the dispatch console,” Zhong Wei said without preamble, sitting down beside him and leaning forward slightly, lowering her voice. “You did well—better than my first simulated docking, at least. You didn’t turn that ship into space debris.” There was teasing in her words, but genuine approval in her eyes. She paused, then her tone turned serious. “But… you accepted the return escort mission?”
Gu Cheng’s heart lurched—as if she’d seen right through his cards. He glanced warily around. The rest area was sparsely populated, but any corner could hide surveillance. Confirming no one was watching, he whispered, “How did you know?”
“The dispatch console can see complete manifests for all docked vessels—even those flagged ‘special.’” Zhong Wei’s voice dropped to a near-breath. “That shipment… it’s odd. There’s no detailed info in the system—just a generic label: ‘high-precision components,’ plus a destination coordinate. It’s encrypted at the highest ‘Black Box’ level. Even our super-user clearance only shows an empty shell.” She hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing her eyes. “Out of curiosity, I looked up that ‘Warehouse Zero.’ According to Toren’s municipal archives, it’s a decommissioned military depot from the Old Era—abandoned for at least twenty years. It’s been sealed shut, and its coordinates are nearly erased from public maps.”
*Abandoned?* Gu Cheng felt a chill slide into his stomach. An abandoned warehouse. An anonymous consignee. A cargo with no records. This wasn’t just “deep water”—it was an invitation straight into the abyss.
“Don’t take it,” Zhong Wei said bluntly, her eyes filled with a concern he’d never seen before—almost urgent. “It’s too suspicious. You don’t even know what you’re transporting. What if it’s bait? Or contraband? If anything goes wrong, that temporary license you worked so hard to earn is gone for good. The Academy won’t protect you.”
Gu Cheng looked at her earnest face, touched by the raw sincerity in her worry. But instantly, a stubborn, defiant fire flared within him. He’d just proven he wasn’t the “waste” they’d labeled him—was he really going to shrink back now, cowed by fear? He turned toward the viewport. The infinite star-sea stretched out, silent and vast, its distant stars seeming to mock his hesitation. And that double fee—he desperately needed it. He needed money to prove he deserved his dream of starship command.
“I have to take it,” he said, shaking his head, his voice firming, his gaze sharpening. “It’s the ship owner’s job—I can’t walk away halfway. Besides, I trust my own judgment. It’s just delivering cargo—how bad could it be?”
Zhong Wei studied him in silence for a few seconds. She seemed about to say more, but finally just sighed—a sigh heavy with resignation and something unspoken. “Fine,” she relented. “Since you’ve decided… I’ll help you. I’ll pull a shift swap. I’m on return-trajectory dispatch duty in two hours. I’ll route you through the cleanest possible corridor—avoiding all high-density traffic zones and known pirate sectors. If anything abnormal happens en route—*anything*—call ‘Luochuan-3 Dispatch – Zhong Wei’ immediately. I’ll be on standby 24/7.”
Warmth surged through Gu Cheng, like a current of quiet strength. He hadn’t expected this reserved, almost aloof classmate to step forward—risking her own standing and future—to stand by him. This loyalty weighed more than any fee ever could.
“Thank you, Zhong Wei,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.
“Don’t thank me,” she shot back, giving him a look that was once again cool—but now edged with warmth. “Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Go on—your cargo should be finishing unloading soon. Remember: safety first. Your life is worth more than anything.”
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